


Without Bringing Me Dreams

by HufflepuffWarrior



Series: Forever and Always [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Marriage, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, True Love, Weddings, modern girl in middle-earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 00:32:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15376797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HufflepuffWarrior/pseuds/HufflepuffWarrior
Summary: "I felt like I was stumbling around in the dark," you say. "I felt like there was something I was looking for, something I needed, desperately. There was always something in my life that seemed to be... justmissing. I didn't know what it was, but it was like being locked in a constant state of confusion. I did everything I wanted, but that one thing always evaded me. And then I fell here, and I thought,that's it.I thought I'd never find it here, because it isn't my home.""But?" His voice is soft, enticing, his fingertips tracing across your bare back, just light enough to coax the slightest of shivers from your body."But then I realized," you say quietly, "that all along, I was just looking for you."





	Without Bringing Me Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> So here's story 2! All bright and early. Hope you like this, and I strongly recommend reading the first story in this series before coming to this one, for any new readers. Do tell me what you think, I'd love a review or two. ;)

**_"For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams, of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes, of the beautiful Annabel Lee."_**

**_–'Annabel Lee', Edgar Allan Poe_**

You're standing in front of the mirror, gazing with trepidation at your own reflection. 

Not that your reflection bothers you—Lyvya has outdone herself this time, and you've never worn such a beautiful dress—but today is, arguably, the best, most important day of your life. 

Today is your wedding.

Of course, you're happy, happier than you've ever been. But now you understand what Yraena had said, about being nervous despite being happy. There's a low, noticeable fluttering in your stomach, making waves of tension and nervousness radiate through you. You feel like you've swallowed an alarm clock; with every tick, you get more and more nervous, until it gives out and rings, which is when you give a small, involuntary shiver. 

Then the ticking starts again. 

You've just shivered for what feels like the forty-eighth time when Lyvya hurries inside, shutting the door behind her. "How are you feeling, miss?" she asks, moving towards you and brushing some nonexistent dust off the collar of your dress. "Not too nervous, I hope?"

"Oh, well—a little," you lie, your foot jiggling uncontrollably. "You know, just a little."

"Well, that's good, isn't it, miss?" Her wide blue-green eyes gaze with concern into yours. "Well, you look lovely, at any rate," she says brightly. "Fit for a princess, you look."

"All thanks to you, Lyvya," you say winningly. She blushes. "We'll have none of that now, miss," she says, bustling around you and pulling the strings of your dress tighter. It's a dark, deep blue, so dark it looks nearly black but not quite, with silver sequins and gems dripping off the bodice and clinging to the skirt, which bells out at your waist and falls gracefully in silk and ribbon down to your toes. 

It feels odd—if you ever pictured yourself getting married, you would imagine yourself wearing white, a wedding dress, with a veil, marched down the aisle by your father while whoever your betrothed was would be waiting at the altar. 

But that dream always dissolved before you could say _I do_ ; after your parents had died, you felt sick just imagining being walked down the aisle by anyone but your dad, and the face of your intended would be blurred, indistinct. You had discarded the dream of something as permanent as marriage after that.

But now...

"Remember," Lyvya says, twisting her slender hands together. "Walk straight and firm, and don't look right or left. Don't be too hasty to say your vows, it'll all be fine. There's really no need to be nervous," she says, sounding very much nervous herself. "It'll be fine," she says again.

"Of course," you say faintly. 

"Here—you look pale as milk," she says, placing a splendid white rose into your hair—which is done simply, unstyled and loose, held back only by a navy band—tucking the pale, lovely blossom into your tresses. The white puts some much-needed color into your cheeks, and makes you look younger, somehow. You bite your lip, gazing at your reflection. 

"Now now, don't bite your lips, it'll ruin the lipstick!" frets Lyvya, moving forward and wielding the lipstick expertly. With a few quick, practiced strokes, the deep pink of your lips is once again pristine. "There," she says. "That's better, isn't it?" 

"Mmhmm." You sit down at the vanity table, wringing your hands together. "I feel like I'm going to mess everything up," you say, worrying at the ribbons in your dress. "What if I mess everything up?"

"You will be fine," she says clearly. "I understand that this is a covetous moment, but you must pull yourself together." She takes your hand. "You'll be surrounded by people you love, and care for," she says. "What more reassurance do you need?"

You raise your eyes. "Will you be there?"

She deflates slightly. "Oh, no, miss. I'm not allowed—"

"Well, that's just ridiculous." You stand up, folding your arms stubbornly. "I won't have it. I won't stand for it. Lyvya, you will be there. I will see to it that you are there and treated just as a regular person would be."

"Miss!" She shakes her head. "I can't—"

"But I can. You are to attend, and not as a maid, but as a close friend of the bride." She opens her mouth to protest, but you say, "No buts. I insist upon it, and so it will be." Your voice is firm, imperious, regal. She sighs, then shakes her head with a small, rueful smile. "No one ever could argue with you, miss," she sighs. "All right, then. I too will be there."

"Good," you exhale. "I'm getting married, Lyvya. _Married_. Oh, Mahal." You cover your face with your hands. "This is terrifying."

"Now, miss," she admonishes. "Don't fret, you'll be fine." It feels like the thousandth time she's said it. "Everything will go as planned." She smiles at you. "How long has it been since you saw the prince?"

You shrug. "Almost five days now." It's one of those odd dwarf customs, not being allowed to see your intended a few days before the wedding. Bad luck, or whatever happens if you do. Either way, you've been going crazy, not having seen Thorin for almost a week, not having been able to touch him or kiss him or anything. Now, five days later, you're just about ready to explode. 

She nods. "Good," she says. "The longer you keep away from each other before the weddings the happier it'll be, they say."

"Who on earth comes up with these?" you demand, scowling at her. 

She shrugs. "Not me, miss."

You sigh. "Whoever it was, they were an idiot."

Her smile is so quick you wonder if it was there at all. "Whenever you say, miss," she says. "Whatever you say."

+++

"You'll be fine," says Yraena again, squeezing your hand. "You'll be totally fine."

You nod blankly. 

"You're sure you don't need anything?" asks Dís, frowning at you with evident concern. She looks like a blur, her deep purple and black dress looking like a formless blob in your blurred gaze. Yraena similarly looks like a silver and bronze blur, the vivid red of her hair standing out in stark relief. The ring on her finger flashes gold. "Some water? A mint, perhaps?"

"I'm sure," you say, nodding. "You two get going, I'll be fine."

"All right," says Yraena, the two of them sharing a worried glance. "Remember, you will be fine." She nods, smiling confidently. "As you would say, you will kill it." She pats your back. The modern phrase sounds so odd in her mouth that it startles a laugh out of you. "Thanks, Yraena."

Once the two women leave, you sit down, worrying at the silver ribbon on your waist. You're not really nervous, per se, just apprehensive. It makes a lot of difference being engaged and being married. Marriage means ownership, practically. It'll be stamped onto your body and onto his, that you belong to each other. You're not afraid, but you wonder if you're ready to take this step yet.

"Y/N? It's time," says a familiar voice, and you turn, startled, to see an impeccably dressed Faryn, looking sophisticated and distinguished with his hair neatly combed back and his eyes glimmering like the faraway sea. He smiles at you, proffering his arm.

"Faryn?" You walk up to him, astonished. He shrugs self-deprecatingly. "Unless you'd rather someone else walked you down the aisle?"

"No way," you say, laughing as you loop your arm through his. "Even if you're practically my age. And you're my teacher."

"Was your teacher," he corrects. "And I don't think it matters that we're so close in age, either."

"Good. No one else could be my wingman," you say winningly, beaming at him. He beams back. "Now, princess, are you ready to get married to the man you love?" He raises his brows and leans forward conspiratorially. "Because if you have cold feet, I will absolutely smuggle you over the border into Esgaroth. No one will know where you've gone." 

"I don't think that'd be necessary," you say with a laugh. 

"Then let's do this," he says, and leads you outside. 

You take a deep breath as the two of you walk, side by side, with you staring straight ahead but not really seeing anything at all. You focus on putting one foot in front of the other, not wanting to trip in your heels. 

Once you reach the altar you smile at Faryn as he heads off to the left, giving you a surreptitious nod and a smile as you draw up to the platform where your betrothed is waiting. 

Your breath catches when you see him—and suddenly the world falls away, and there's nothing else there but the two of you, and your eyes, staring into each other. It feels like the first time you're seeing him, like you've never seen him before. Your eyes take him in, the ink-black hair, the silver-blue eyes, the achingly beautiful face, the imposing height, the broad shoulders. His own eyes devour the sight of you, and you blush as you stand next to him. 

He offers you a small, shy smile and you return it, biting your lip. 

The vows are a blur of words and exchanges, and you say them all, your heart hammering as you do. His fingers when they slide the plain platinum band onto your finger are soft, and when you do the same his eyes don't leave your face. 

Finally, the priest ties your hands with a bloodred ribbon, loose but firm. "Then I now pronounce you husband and wife," he says.

Your breath catches as you both lean forward, and then there's an inch of space between you, then a centimeter, then a millimeter, then none at all as he kisses you softly, your eyes slipping shut as he does. You barely hear it as the whole room erupts with applause and cheers as you draw away, suddenly shy. Oh, Mahal, you're _married_.

At the front of the rows you see a beaming Dís, and Yraena and Frerin, whose hand rests atop his wife's. Faryn is cheering, grinning at you, and you see Saelle, her hand in Estela's, both smiling at you. You see a familiar, slender dwarrowdam sitting at the end of the first row, smiling at you. With a jolt you realize it's Lyvya, her hair down in golden curls till her waist and eyes glimmering, matching her dress, blue-green as the sea. She looks so different, you think. But you're happy, because she's here for you. Just like everyone else is.

You smile and turn, your arm linked with Thorin's, as the first of the guests descend to congratulate you.

+++

The evening is a colorful, happy blur of dancing and dresses, the hem of your own heavy, wine red gown brushing the floor as you dance and dance and dance, until you run out of breath. Then you keep dancing.

Finally you sit, breathless and flushed from dancing and drinking (though to your defense you've had only two glasses), next to Thorin. You've barely had time to talk, and now as the world around you is a shimmering kaleidoscope of motion you find a rare moment of peace. 

His hand is linked with yours, and he's running his fingers along the backs of your knuckles, brushing the soft skin. "Hey," he says softy, smiling at you.

You smile back. "Hey."

"Today went by so fast," he says. "I hardly remember it all."

"I know," you agree. "It was all just such a..." You gesture. 

His mouth quirks up. "A mess?"

"No," you say, rolling your eyes. "More of a sort of race."

"A mess it is, then." He grins at you. You've never seen him so happy, with a bright light behind his eyes that makes him glow. You feel the same happiness emanating from you as well, mixing with his, sharing in his. 

"Time to get to bed," says a voice, and you look up to see Dís grinning at you, hands on her hips. "Come on, follow me, you two."

You frown at Thorin, perplexed, but he only grins at you before steering you gently from the room after Dís, not saying a word. 

She leads you deep under the Mountain, to a wing of the kingdom you've never even been to. She stops in front of a door, her brows raised. 

"I trust you know the tradition," she says, and without waiting for you to reply as is usual Dís fashion, she goes on. "So get in there and don't come out till morning." She winks at you. "I'll see you then. Later, lovebirds. And, congratulations." She pats your cheeks and makes herself scarce, humming to herself. 

You open your mouth to ask Thorin what the hell that was about, but he already walks you into the room, again in silence, as if he thinks you know what's going on. Which you totally do not.

The door closes softly behind you, with the faintest of faint clicks as the lock falls into place automatically. You're not going to be disturbed tonight. 

The room is lovely—draped with silks and roses, lavish and huge, with a white marble fireplace in one side, a merry fire crackling away in it, and a massive picture window on the other, with heavy silk curtains that fall across it. There's another door off to the left, presumably the bathroom, and there's a huge, oak four-poster bed right in the middle of it all, the hangings woven with rich, warm shades of deep red and cream. 

Your heart flutters as you feel Thorin pull you towards him slowly, allowing you to savor every second as you gently press up against him, your bodies curving together instinctively. He brushes your hair out of your face, his lips slightly parted as he looks at you. 

"Well," you say, your voice slightly hoarse, "they certainly got us the deluxe suite for tonight."

"It's a tradition," he murmurs, still looking at you like you're a miracle sent from heaven. "For the wedding night to end in the consummation of the bond."

"So they give us a luxurious room to do that?" You bite your lip and his eyes follow the movement, the blue of his eyes slowly being swallowed by black. You flush, your teeth freeing your lip. _Damn it._

"They do." His fingers move from your hair to your cheek, slowly tracing patterns on your skin. His touch seems to leave a trail of fire in its wake. You hold your breath as his fingertips run along your lower lip, making that all-too-familiar flare of heat and desire begin in your stomach. 

"I think it adds a nice touch, don't you?" he goes on, his thumb tracing your cheek as he leans closer. Your breath hitches, but you still manage to quip, "I agree. That bed is particularly fine-looking."

His lips curl into a smile just before they cover yours in a deep, slow, heated kiss, his fingers threading through your hair to pull you closer. Your own hands curve around his shoulders as you tilt your head, your lips parting under his demanding mouth, his tongue and teeth clashing with yours in a burning tangle that makes heat curl up inside you. 

"Maybe—," you gasp as he tilts your head back, pain and pleasure spreading deliciously from the spot on your neck where his teeth bite down on your skin, "maybe we should use it. Just a thought." You squirm slightly as his lips run skillfully up your jaw, then come to rest on yours again, this time even more demanding than the last kiss. 

He slowly pushes you backwards, step by step, until your back hits one of the wooden bedposts, arching up against it when his fingers skim up your sides, lips hot against your throat. Your nails scrabble for purchase on the wood as his kisses run dangerously low, ending where the neck of your dress begins. Your chest heaves, your head spinning. You feel drunk on him, on the feeling of him against you, of the feeling of his lips on your skin. 

He draws away a moment, and you blink wide eyes turned black with desire at him, your fingers still digging into the bedpost behind you. You're gasping for breath. "Don't," you say breathlessly, "don't stop."

He leans in again and you frame his face between your hands, holding him tightly to you as your lips press together, desperately. _He's mine,_ you think dazedly as he catches hold of your hips, lifting you up, your bodies half-colliding as he pulls you closer. _He's all mine—my husband._

You spin around, pulling him with you as you push him down onto the bed, his arms caging you protectively as you both sprawl onto it. You attempt to sit, pulling him up with you as you sling both legs around his hips, sitting up on his lap as your arms encircle his shoulders. You slant your mouth across his hard and he reciprocates with a soft moan, his fingers bunching in the skirt of your dress. 

He draws it up your legs slowly, sliding the soft material along your ankles, your calves, your knees, until his fingers are on your bare thighs, warm and tingling. He moves it up further, rucking it up till it bunches at your hips and his fingers hook into the tops of your stockings, pulling them down your legs. 

You sigh against his mouth, moving closer as the last stocking comes off, leaving your legs, still wrapped around his waist, bare. His hand presses to the small of your back, pulling you closer, shifting so that you fit against him perfectly, your ankles locking behind his back. 

You pull away, breathing hard. Since you're sitting up you're slightly elevated, and his eyes are level with your collarbone, and you have to look down to meet his eyes. They're shimmering blue, not quite dark and not quite light. You feel a hectic flush on your cheeks, and your chest rises and falls deeply, brushing against his whenever you breathe. 

His hair is brushing his shoulders, messy and slightly tangled from where your fingers has gripped it, his face is flushed, and his lips are swollen and bitten slightly. You feel your heart contract as you look at him. He's beautiful, and he's yours. You still can't believe he's yours. 

Your hands move to the vulnerable sweep of his throat, the graceful curve between his shoulder and his neck. Your fingers brush across his skin, soft as spider's silk. His eyes fall shut and he draws in a breath, his fingers tightening on your hips. Your hands continue their careful exploration of him, outlining the wings of his collarbone, smoothing over his shoulders, curling behind his jaw. Your fingers brush across the roughness of his beard and you lean in, your lips finding the hollows of his throat. 

His response is immediate and startling; he moans again, his spine arching slightly, his hands fisting into your skirt, nearly ripping the material. You feel his pulse fluttering wildly underneath your lips as your teeth find the soft skin of his neck, biting down. You want to leave a mark, to make sure he has something to remember this by. His breath hitches, and a sort of carnal satisfaction shoots through you.

He tastes like desire and heat and Thorin, and it fills you with want. You feel suddenly, sharply empty, a sort of hollowness between your legs where you need him so badly. 

You yank yourself away, your hands sliding down to where your legs are pillowed on his waist, your fingers quick and efficient on his belt, unclasping it. He doesn't stop you, his pupils blown wide, not looking away from you as you fumble with his trousers, your teeth gritted. 

Finally, it gives, and you're breathing fast as you shift, your hands clenching on his shoulders as you lift yourself slightly then move forward, then downward, your breath catching as you settle onto him, feeling him fill you as you do, your breaths ragged as you move forward until there's no more space left between you. 

His shaking fingers are clenched on your bodice, stretching the fabric right across your body, his head bowed. His own breaths are short and hard, and you feel the intense, all-encompassing pleasure of him spread through you, making everything shimmer and glow around you. 

Your eyes close as you start to move slowly, a broken sound escaping your lips as you feel it like a harsh, delicious stretch in your body, making stars dance in your vision. Your name escapes his own mouth, slurred and hoarse as one of his hands tangles in your hair, pulling you forward, his lips crashing onto yours with just barely controlled need. 

Your body strains for release, for relief from this agonizing pleasure. You swallow each other's gasps as you dangle just below the precipice, threatening to spill you both into the bottomless cavern of ecstasy. His teeth close on your lip as he moves his hips upward, pushing deeper into you. Your eyes fly open as you moan, tossing your hair back as the feeling tears through you like liquid fire. 

Your vision goes white as supernovas erupt in your vision, exploding into your eyes. Your whole body erupts, fire racing up and down your veins as your fingers dig into his skin, leaving dark crescents on his shoulders as you cry his name, gasping as pure feeling pours into you. 

Just as you alight from the height of your pleasure he gasps your name, his fingers tearing your dress as fine tremors rack his body, his restraint evident in the way he keeps his hands away from you, not quite touching you as he slowly returns to himself, his throat moving as he swallows hard, his breath evening. 

You bury your face into his neck, holding him to you as your body stops shaking, your legs still locked around his hips. Dazedly you realize you're both still fully clothed, but you say nothing, just relaxing into him. 

After what feels like an age his hands move gently to your hips, lifting you up off him, shifting so that you're curled up next to him, his hand resting on your cheek, the other on your hip, his thumb stroking gently across the curve of your waist. Even through the fabric of your dress and corset his touch feels like fire. 

He leans forward and captures your lips in a soft, sweet kiss, your eyes falling shut. You float in the simplicity of it, the tenderness and the weight of the feeling behind it. His lips move against yours in patient caresses, slowly coaxing you closer and closer every time. 

You pull away at the same time to draw breath, both panting slightly. You only have time to take in one breath before he kisses you again, harder this time. Then he draws away, then moves in again, and again, and again. Before long you're gasping, face flushed from the exertion, as his tongue flicks over your bottom lip, skilled and enticing.

Your fingers briefly withdraw from his hair, reaching behind yourself to pull at the strings of your dress, yanking on them hard, unraveling them. Once they're loose enough you push it down, your feet kicking it away, where it fetches up by the fireplace. As you do his own hands go to the hem of his tunic, dragging it upward, lifting it up off his head. He flings it away heedlessly, and you hear the soft thud of fabric hitting the floor, and then the clink of metal as his trousers join it, the belt meeting the ground. 

Your hands scrabble at the strings of your corset, unlacing the first few strings. He bats your hands away, his fingers gripping the front of the corset tightly, his knuckles brushing your aching breasts as he jerks his hands down, tearing the corset down the middle. You gasp, partly with surprise and partly at the assertiveness of the gesture. 

He pulls the two halves of the corset off your body, allowing them to fall to the floor beside the bed. Your cheeks flush as his eyes travel over the length of you, his breaths rapid. He's no stranger to the sight of you—he's seen you more times than you can count—but this time, there's something new about it, a new layer of intimacy, of closeness. It makes your cheeks heat, makes you feel like you did that first time, in his room, inexperienced and trembling. 

"Y/N," he whispers, and there's such reverence in his voice that it makes your heart ache. "My life, my greatest sin, my heart." His eyes shimmer. "My wife."

Your palm presses to his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath your fingers. "I'm yours," you say softly. "And you're mine." You feel the faintly raised scar on his chest, slightly rough against your palm. "My husband." It feels strange saying it, but it feels so _right_ that your breath catches. 

Skin presses against skin as you move, his arms crushing you against him as yours wrap around him, tangling together, your mouths seeking. One of your legs lifts, curving around his hip, and the movement presses you together close, so close that you feel every slide of his body against yours. His sigh of approval ghosts against your cheek, his hips fitting seamlessly into the cradle of your thighs. 

He slides in seamlessly, without friction or hesitance. You lift your hips, welcoming the stretch as he buries himself into you, purring your name. His hand spears into your hair, tilting your head back, lips and teeth working on your throat as he starts to thrust.

There's no elaborate touches, no slow movements or soft motions. He just pushes into you deeply and evenly, not stuttering or stopping or slowing. You sigh and moan, squirming around his thickness as his hips collide with yours, rhythmic and consuming. He bites down onto your neck, and you cry out breathlessly, pressing closer to him.

"Don't stop," you gasp. "Don't _stop_ —"

He doesn't, pushing into you relentlessly, his hands tilting your hips up to caress that spot inside you that magnifies the sensation a hundred times. You writhe, arching your back, his name slipping from your lips on a moan.

Your climax rolls over you from your toes, radiating through your whole body and leaving you breathless. You tighten around him, and he follows with a hoarse shout, spilling himself into you in short, powerful bursts, his seed filling you in a hot rush. You both come back to yourselves slowly, and he leans his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

His hand slowly comes up, cupping your face in his palm. You lean into his touch, relaxing slightly. "Till death do us part," you say softly. 

He frowns at you. "What?"

"It's a line from the traditional wedding vows that we take when we marry at home," you say. "In sickness and in health, for better, for worse, to love and to cherish. Till death do us part. I—I always thought that's what I'd say, if I ever got married." You duck your head, blushing. Your fingers twist the new band on your left hand, the simple platinum ring woven intricately around your finger. "I guess I was wrong."

"There are a thousand ways to say exactly that," he says quietly. "What we said earlier today and what you thought you would say are only two of those." He presses a quick, light kiss to your cheek. 

You wriggle closer, slipping your arms around his waist. "Mmm," you say. "Either way I never thought I'd get to say the words though."

"Whyever not? You didn't want to marry?"

You weigh your answer carefully, gauging your own feelings. "I... I never really thought about it. But I didn't—it isn't as if I didn't want to, but I knew that no matter how hard I looked, I'd never really find someone who could make me happy. It was like I knew, deep down, that nobody in that world could be mine and be happy with me forever."

"So you never tried?" He's looking at you from underneath a thoughtful, glittering cobalt gaze. You shrug a little sheepishly, smiling. "No, I didn't bother at all. And nobody else bothered, either. I was about as interesting as a doorknob to most people. Most men, anyway."

"The more fool they." His fingers graze your waist, his touch light and caressing. "They do not know what they were missing." You blush and sigh, leaning back, biting your lip. 

"I felt like I was stumbling around in the dark," you say. "I felt like there was something I was looking for, something I needed, desperately. There was always something in my life that seemed to be... just _missing_. I didn't know what it was, but it was like being locked in a constant state of confusion. I did everything I wanted, but that one thing always evaded me. And then I fell here, and I thought, _that's it._ I thought I'd never find it here, because it isn't my home."

"But?" His voice is soft, enticing, his fingertips tracing across your bare back, just light enough to coax the slightest of shivers from your body.

"But then I realized," you say quietly, "that all along, I was just looking for you."

Your eyes meet his. "It was like a puzzle piece suddenly dropped into place in my life, completing me. I wasn't whole until I found you."

"I suppose that's what it's meant to feel like," he says quietly, pulling you closer gently, "to have a One. I felt the same about you. A piece of my heart I didn't realize I had until you gave it to me and suddenly I realized what it was like to be complete."

"Well," you say, "that's a much more eloquent way of putting it. You're better with words than I am."

"Hmm." His nose brushes yours, just barely. "I will handle the words," he says. "You can take care of the rest of the things."

"Things such as?" you breathe, arching up expectantly. 

"Such as this." His lips brush yours and you hold him there, threading your fingers through his hair, his mouth impossibly soft against yours. He pulls away a few minutes later, smiling at you. "See?" he asks, his voice soft and husky, "you're excellent at that."

"You're in good hands, Thorin." You pat his chest. "I'll make sure you're... in good condition at all times. Functioning properly, that sort of thing."

"'Functioning properly'," he says on half a laugh. "That's a relief."

"Mmhmm." You sigh and lay your head on his chest, closing your eyes. "Forgive me," you murmur sleepily. "I'm much too tired to engage in any more voracious sexual activity."

You feel his laugh reverberate through you. "Then sleep, love," he says, gathering you close protectively. "Go to sleep."

And you do, falling asleep cradled against your husband, his arms around you all the night through, and you know that here in his arms you'll always be safe and loved. Neither of you wake up even once in the night, and your dreams merge, fusing into one wish, holding worlds within worlds. And when you'll wake up in the morning tangled in his arms and happier than you've ever been, you'll wonder, if maybe there really is such thing as a happy ending after all.


End file.
